Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  Kessler had taken a huge risk. If Schiffer had already got there, and if he had seen the encounter, it would be the end of them. What would become of Emma and Stefan then? How would Kessler himself react to torture?

  Hoffmann pushed the thoughts away. The game was not over yet. He needed to leave Coburg quickly. There might be the chance of a train directly to Bamberg, but he didn't want to risk public transport. He felt vulnerable in small towns. Bamberg could wait. Stefan was more important.

  102

  Tilli's estate lay well on the other side of Bamberg. A car would be too dangerous, draw too much attention, and almost impossible to find. A bicycle would be too slow, though the easiest thing of all to steal.

  Another motorbike would be ideal. Motorbikes, Hoffmann thought, fleetingly amused - always motorbikes, like cowboys in Karl May books always have horses: the ideal anonymous fast transport. He'd get out of town, hole up somewhere until dawn, for country roads he didn't know would be too dangerous to negotiate at night, and reach Tilli's district late the following afternoon. Of course they'd be looking for any bike he was lucky enough to steal as soon as its loss was reported, but from their point of view he could have gone in any direction from Coburg, and how many men could a small-town police force spare for an immediate pursuit? But once the Gestapo knew…

  He had no means of cutting telegraph lines.

  Only important people had access to petrol.

  It was late, and there were only a few man and women about. He made his way back to the hotel, and once there wasted no time in washing and changing. By ten he was back on the street. He walked along the river but there was nothing. He doubled back into town, making his way to the station. Here, there was more activity.

  Outside the station was a metal rack to which three or four bicycles were chained with heavy padlocks. There were two cars, a Volkswagen and an Adler, and a motorbike, chained to a lamp-post, an old Blucher with a sidecar, its tyres covered with mud, untidily parked in a way that suggested its owner had probably had more than a few beers before he arrived here. But where was he now? There wasn't anyone on the street outside the station, though Hoffmann could see three or four people through the glass doors which led to the station concourse.

  The ignition wouldn't be a problem, but starting the thing would make a hell of a noise and he would have to get away immediately. If it took two or three attempts, that would be too long. He'd have to run, and where would he run to? The station square was wide, and he'd be seen before he got to the streets which led into it. The sidecar would be a problem. It made the thing slower and more unwieldy, apart from the fact that the bike itself was unusual, stood out. Could he uncouple it later? Could he afford the time to do so? He had to weigh his chances.

  He glanced towards the windows of the station bar, but the blinds were down. He went in. It was busy, full of people, mainly in uniform, but the atmosphere was dull, and the conversation muted. A bunch of morose drunks hunched around the Stammtisch. Pity, he could have done with a more raucous crowd. No-one paid him any attention, except the barman, who, irritatingly enough, was immediately attentive, forcing Hoffmann to buy a beer when he would rather have slipped out again without drawing any attention to himself. He drank half of it quickly and left, fearful that the owner of the bike might have returned during his reconnaissance. But outside, all was quiet, and the Blucher still sat there.

  One of the men in the bar had to be the owner of the bike. Hoffmann at least knew how to get out of town. But he didn't know how much petrol was in the tank. It wasn't a military bike, but not many people would have access even to such transport as this, these days.

  He could wait until the next day, even go back to the hotel. But Kessler and his sergeant would be somewhere in town, and the Gestapo covering them would be here soon, if not already. Hoffmann had made slow progress, and the others would have cars. Staying or fleeing, the risk was as great either way.

  He wouldn't get another opportunity. He strode over to the Blucher, stooped as if to tie his shoelace, and deftly picked the padlock holding the chain. After one more glance round, he climbed on, engaging the ignition wires and stamping on the pedal. It fired first time and the engine sounded sweet. What was more, the fuel gauge needle swung confidently to three-quarters full. Without looking round, he headed out of town.

  103

  He took a country road south-west towards Schweinfurt, hiding in a wood for most of the night. The following day, he left Bamberg well to the south-west. The roads were mired and going was slow, but there was little traffic. Hoffmann dropped down via Volkach and Dettelbach to Iphofen.

  He had one twist of snow left, but he'd keep that until he really needed it, and better not to use it at all, better to keep it as reassurance. He would have to ride out the panic as he rode out this journey, the dangers of which presented themselves to him starkly: anyone within a radius of thirty kilometres of Coburg might recognise this bike. This was an area of small towns, villages, country roads, places in which it would always be hard to take cover. But he'd had no choice, unless to continue on foot, an even greater risk, and he told himself that he was on the home stretch, that he would be with Tilli and Stefan soon, it was vital that he reach them as soon as possible; he would make sure they were safe, and then...

  Well, then he would see. He could not plan that far ahead.

  He abandoned the bike some way outside Iphofen, concealing it in a copse some way from the road. Iphofen was a tiny place, a large village, but he hoped at least he could buy some food there and then walk the last few miles to Tilli.

  He thought about Stefan. Stefan scarcely knew him, but he had accepted him as, vaguely, a godfather. It was important that he shouldn't know there was any blood link between them. Only five people knew the truth. Emma and her aunt were irreproachable, as was Tilli, and, he could only hope, Adamov. He felt easier about Paul Kessler after their recent encounter. Kessler wouldn't have taken that risk without having decided whose side he was on, and besides, even with all his reservations, Hoffmann was beginning to see and accept that Kessler really was bound by his love for Emma. If any other reason was needed, the man was too bright not to see that the Party's sun was setting.

  Hoffmann didn't know how much Schiffer knew. He didn't know if Wolf Hagen knew. But if Hagen had known, why had he not acted? He'd had ten years.

  They might not have touched Emma. He tried to convince himself of that. It was a slight hope, but it was a real one. Chasing the Party's enemies within the state was one thing, damage limitation in the wake of the defeat which was coming, was another. Brandau had told him an increasing number of so-called privileged prisoners were being held in the camps, dissident politicians, senior army officers who refused to play ball, and their families, whose lives were deemed negotiable. Himmler thought that by these means he could save his own skin when the Führer fell.

  There was Brandau too. Brandau had been close enough to him in the old days, and had overheard his phone call to Tilli from Police Headquarters in Berlin only a matter of days - a whole lifetime - ago. If Brandau got through to Switzerland, and if Brandau chose to, he might be helpful. He had contacts, and there were Allied agents in the south now, they all knew that. Had Brandau guessed? But what would he do with the information? And would he - could he - help? He had a more important agenda to attend to than verifying whether or not Hoffmann had another child hidden away somewhere. Yet Hoffmann had to try to guarantee Stefan's safety in every way he could. Stefan no longer had Hoffmann's protection. Tilli knew the score, but Tilli was alone. Stefan was a quarter Jewish. More than enough to condemn him.

  The last time he had seen his son was before Christmas, 1943. Tilli had given up the theatre, ceased to visit Berlin, despite invitations from Emmy Göring. She was enjoying her semi-retirement, running her small estate and taking care of Stefan, who had become like a son to her. It was she to whom he was closest, she who organised his education, she who protected him. Officially, he was her nephew. Unoffic
ially, everyone thought they knew he was her love-child by Göring, and everyone respected and indulged that. There had been some trouble about his having a private tutor rather than going to school, but the Görings had supported Tilli's decision, and she had got her way. Neither she nor Hoffmann wanted the boy to be lonely, but better that than to have the kind of education the Party offered in its schools.

  Stefan had inherited many of his mother's looks. Her eyes, her cheekbones, but most of all, her manner. Hoffmann had always longed to see more of him; but when he was with him, he had been torn. Sometimes it was like being with Kara's ghost. He'd adopted the role of Stefan's godfather, and didn't use his real name. Stefan treated him, not with suspicion, because he enjoyed the novelty of different company, and the affection and attention, but always with reserve. He was a reserved human being. Hoffmann told himself that was no bad thing.

  He was tired. He was edgy, and he decided that now was the time to take his last twist of snow. Once it was gone, it was gone, and he doubted if Tilli would have any, given that he managed to reach her. Perhaps now, at the beginning of the last slope he had to ski down, with the lights of the town almost in view below him, he could do without it until it was all over. he heard his father's voice again: just get down this slope, and you can rest.

  He'd need a couple of hours' sleep during the night before continuing, or he would run the risk of making mistakes, and he didn't want to fall at the last fence; but he'd have to get into the countryside to do so. Though this place was small, lost in deep farmland, even here there could be prying eyes. But he needed food too, he'd have to get something.

  He'd been fortunate in his stolen documentation: his new identity papers were those of a telephone engineer. As long as he wasn't asked to use skills he didn't have, he'd be all right, since no-one would question his being on the road, though he'd have to be careful if anyone asked how he'd got there. His clothes fitted his profession well, that was something. Could he have hitch-hiked? It didn't sound likely.

  He should have thought. He reminded himself that it is always on the home stretch that the fatal mistakes are made. You start to relax. You think you're home before you really are.

  104

  Dusk had fallen by now. A baker's shop was still open. He could smell it before he saw it. A small place at the corner of a square near the Rödelseer Tor. No-one else about. He must have been the last customer.

  She was maybe thirty-five or forty, a strong body and a strong face, dressed in a black cotton print frock which clung to her full breasts, broad hips and buttocks. Dark brown hair curled up over her forehead and fell down over her neck from under a black headscarf streaked with flour. Her eyes were violet blue. In the light from the oil-lamp her skin looked dark and fine.

  'You're lucky, I was just about to close,' she said, smiling, though weariness, even sadness, did not leave her eyes.

  'On my way to Munich,' said Hoffmann.

  'Oh?' She wasn't all that interested. 'I was there once. Before the war. With my husband. What can I do for you? There's not much left.'

  'Smells good.'

  She smiled again. 'I'm not as good a baker as my husband was, but my Apfelstrudel's not bad. Try some?'

  'You'd better wrap it. I've got to get on.'

  'No hurry at this time of day, surely. And I'm closed now.' She drew the blinds over the windows and door, and clicked its latch. 'You can leave when you've eaten. There's milk, beer, wine. No tea or coffee. I don't really run a café but there are a couple of tables through there,' she indicated an archway. 'You're going to have to stop to eat. You might as well be comfortable.'

  She moved closer to him. He sensed the warmth of her body, and its warm smell mingled with the childhood smell of bread. The lamplight was warm too, and its narrow pool made the interior of the shop seem safe, apart from the world, a sanctuary. Hoffmann was tired. The woman's suggestion made sense, and there was nothing in her manner to rouse his suspicion. She seemed uninterested in him.

  'Thank you,' he said. The warmth in the shop was good. For some reason he felt close to tears. He shook his head vigorously and coughed.

  'What do you do?' She was just making conversation.

  'Why aren't I in uniform, do you mean? I'm a telephone engineer.'

  She pursed her lips slightly, shrugged. 'Come on.' She led the way into what turned out to be a tiny dining room. People probably dropped in for a coffee in the old days. Now the place looked neglected, though it was still cosy. She brought the lamp in from the shop, and food and wine.

  'My husband's on the East Front somewhere,' she said. 'I haven't heard anything from him for seven months.' Her voice was bleak.

  'I'm sorry.'

  She paused. 'Do you think there's any hope?'

  Dangerous talk, to a stranger. 'I don't know.'

  'Eat. Go on. I'm glad you stayed. It's nice to have someone to talk to.' She looked around. 'I'm leaving here when it's over. Go to a big city. Back to Munich perhaps.'

  There was suddenly such loneliness in her voice that his tears flowed. He staunched them with the napkin she had given him but they would not stop, and when he tried to apologise, he found he could only sob. This was no good. He couldn't crack now. But she simply laid a hand on his arm and looked at him. The tension flooded through him and out of him, not just the tension of the past days, but of the past years.

  He did not know how, but she managed to pull him to his feet and guide him through the shop and to another room, where she placed the oil lamp on a side table and sat next to him on a sofa by a wall. She cradled his head on her bosom and he sank there, letting all his own loneliness and sadness rise to the surface of his mind to be confronted.

  She smelt of bread and of fresh grass. The tears ceased, though his head felt heavy, and his chest ached. He knew he should get up and go. He had to leave. Only hours from Tilli's now. A pleasant walk down country lanes edged with birch woods, and over fields. He could be there by lunchtime the following day. If he fell asleep now, this woman could denounce him. He must not fall asleep.

  He tried to force his head upward and back, but when she held him, he could not resist. It was too comfortable. He scarcely cared, he found, about the risk he was taking. He had taken so many risks. If they came for him, he had the little Walther in his pocket and he would kill himself before telling them anything, before they could even arrest him. Better than the suicide capsule. More like a gentleman. His head swam. He had eaten and drunk nothing after all. At last he sat up, but he remained by her, and she by him, pressed closely together, their arms about one another, as children might, if lost or threatened, cling to one another for comfort. By turning his head slightly he could feel tears on her cheek, too.

  She whispered something to him and stood, a certain insistency about her now. It was forever since he had made love. She led him up a staircase sandwiched between whitewashed walls. Off a small landing one door led to a room almost completely filled by a wardrobe, a dresser and a bed of matching, massive oak. On the bed the huge white eiderdown which covered it was of great softness, and Hoffmann was seduced further by memories of childhood, of his first erotic yearnings in just such a place, wrapped in just such a featherbed.

  Hoffmann was well aware what powerful aphrodisiacs comfort, relief and sadness can be. The baker's wife and he cleaved to one another with as much urgency and power as if they were bent on becoming one person. Surely in making love they were preserving themselves against all the horror of the world that had forced itself on their lives and cut them adrift, just two among millions of victims of a handful of greedy men. They hardly paused between each climax, so great was their need, their mouths and hands seeking each other out with something close to desperation, their arms and legs entwined, bruising each other on the wooden bedstead in their passion and not caring, draining each other of every drop of desire.

  At last it was spent, and they became all but strangers again. They ate together formally, and when they returned to bed, it was to slee
p. But there, as he groaned and muttered, turning, twisting the eiderdown as if he were drowning in it, and once sitting up, eyes open, but not awake, she comforted him, cradled him, wiped his sweating forehead with a towel.

  Before dawn she left him to bake her bread. An hour later, washed and shaved, in another set of clean clothes, her husband's, slightly too large - he must have been a huge man - but more comfortable than those he had bought in Coburg, he was ready to leave.

  She knew her husband would not return from the East Front. He had tried to comfort her when she spoke of it, but it was then that she excluded him, the only time. She had a new dream to pursue, she would wait out the war and then leave to rebuild her life.

  He told her again he was making his way to Munich. She asked no questions, though he knew that she'd sensed he was lying about being a telephone engineer. Would they trace him here? If they came, would they arrest her? Was this another act of selfishness in the long list he burdened himself with? They had given themselves to each other without any thought, but was that excuse enough for him? Should he warn her of the danger he had put her in? He wrote a Munich address on a piece of paper, crumpled it, and left it in the shop where a search would find it quite easily.

  They shook hands when they said goodbye.

  He headed out of Iphofen towards the rising sun, trying to forget his dreams. The night had left him feeling wounded and cleansed.

  105

  Even what he could dredge up to his credit, it seemed to him, now looked like attempts to shore up a collapsing building. The Resistance had never had enough cohesion. It was necessary that it should have existed, but where were the brave individuals who had constructed and been part of it? All dead? Few could have escaped the horrific net Hoffmann knew had been cast over the country since Hitler had most recently cheated death.